


i look back and ask myself; why did you not take the other path (or, what could have happened)

by Spoofymcgee



Series: sunrise, sunset [11]
Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: And i hate him, Arla Fett Lives, Caring Dooku (Star Wars), Depends on how you look at it, Dooku Lives (Star Wars), Feelings, Flowers, Grandparent Dooku (Star Wars), Grandparent Yoda (Star Wars), Human Disaster Anakin Skywalker, Jango Fett Lives, Jedi Master Obi-Wan Kenobi, Lesbian Ahsoka Tano, Mand'alor Arla Fett, Mentioned CT-7567 | Rex, Minor Padmé Amidala/Anakin Skywalker, Padawan Ahsoka Tano, Parent Dooku (Star Wars), Sad Ending, Second Chances, Sort Of, Tea, and not just blind trust, but also im weak at the knees for a good grandparent fic, cause i believe in them, even if it's sitting in a jail cell growing flowers and knitting scarves for your grandchildren, i know that, im changing some stuff, in theory, look he's an ass, not really - Freeform, so like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-08
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:02:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28630716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoofymcgee/pseuds/Spoofymcgee
Summary: Yan Dooku doesn’t consider himself a good man.As to whether or not that’s true, well, it depends on who you ask.He thinks it is. He does, looking at it from a completely objective viewpoint, potentially have some decent qualities.That’s not what he’s thinking about, staring at the shadowed countenance of a Sith lord.
Relationships: Anakin Skywalker & Ahsoka Tano, Barriss Offee/Ahsoka Tano, Dooku & Ahsoka Tano, Dooku & Anakin Skywalker, Dooku & Jocasta Nu, Dooku & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Dooku & Qui-Gon Jinn, Dooku & Yoda (Star Wars), Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi
Series: sunrise, sunset [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1927888
Comments: 7
Kudos: 107





	i look back and ask myself; why did you not take the other path (or, what could have happened)

**Author's Note:**

> aight, so i'mma go off here on why i wrote this. if you're fine with the premise, feel free to skip this bit. or not. whatever you want.  
> theoretically, i hate dooku. he's a terrible person canonically. but, this is fanfiction, and i love the trope of him being a grandparent.  
> the war ended earlier in this 'verse, and he hasn't committed all the atrocities he did in canon. also, he hasn't killed anyone, nor have any of the bad things he did do, because this series is based off everybody lives/nobody dies.  
> i fully recognize that everything he did anyway is bad, and he's conflicted about that and regrets a whole lot.
> 
> anyway, with that over, enjoy reading!

The room is dark, and the steel against his back is even colder than the freezing air. He's so tired. The distant roar of traffic buzzes in his ears, and the words play on repeat in the back of his head, like a sick lullaby. 

_ Traitor. Evil.  _ **_Sith._ **

And the thing is; the voices are right. 

He closes his eyes.

  
  


Yan Dooku doesn’t consider himself a good man.    
As to whether or not that’s true, well, it depends on who you ask.    
He thinks it is. He does, looking at it from a completely objective viewpoint, potentially have some decent qualities.    
That’s not what he’s thinking about, staring at the shadowed countenance of a Sith lord.    
  
To be completely straight, most of his mind is occupied with repeating the word  _ fuck _ as many times and in as many variations as is humanly possible.    
The part that isn’t, however, is purely fury. Who is this man, coming to  _ him _ , trying to trick  _ him, Yan Dooku _ , into aiding in a plan to bring the Jedi order, and likely the galaxy at large, to its knees?   
  
No. No, this won’t do at all. However…    
Yan smiles, slow and smug and just sly enough to be threatening.    
“What shall my first mission be,  _ Master _ ?” he asks. The word tastes wrong, intended as it is-old and unused, left to sit in a dark corner for years. The Sith returns in kind with a simpering smirk, and all Dooku knows is that he can’t wait to shove a lightsaber through this man’s head.    
  
  


When Qui-Gon walks through the temple hangar’s doors, sopping wet and trailing a tiny, stick thin, red-haired child, Yan is there to meet him. 

Perhaps a better way to phrase it; Qui-Gon crashes into Dooku rounding the corner, and reels back a good three feet, knocking over the little pathetic youngling scrambling to keep pace.    
“You should pay more attention to your surroundings, my old padawan,” Yan scolds, helping the boy to his feet before giving them both a critical once-over. “Hm. No, no, this won’t do at all. You’ll have to stay with me tonight.”   
And he takes off down the hall, a tiny hand gently but firmly gripped in his own, leaving a sputtering Qui-Gon in his wake.    
“I have your padawan,” Yan calls back to him. “If you’d like him back sometime within the next two decades, I’d advise you to catch up.”   
He’d prepared, of course. Yan Dooku never has less than three perfectly plotted plans ready to implement in any given situation he finds himself in.    
The rain shower today had been scheduled, which explained the towels and the spare clothing. None of the files on any Force-sensitive ever trained at the temple, no matter for how short a time are ever deleted, and so Obi-Wan’s robes fit him nearly perfectly.    
“How did you convince Quartermaster Verkun to lend you those?” Qui-Gon asks, staring in amazement at the two large beds sitting in the middle of the quarters. Obi-Wan stands by the couch, toweling off his hair. He hasn’t said much yet, but Dooku had seen the way his eyes flashed when Qui-Gon had commented rudely (though probably unintentionally, knowing his kind-hearted, uncultured brute of a former padawan) about the discipline methods of an initiate harrying a small herd of sticky crechelings from the refectory.    
Good. The boy has some spark in him yet. Yan can work with that.    
Jocasta’s discovered some more obscurely ancient cookbooks hailing from cultures unknowing in her Archives, and her cooking ranges from incredible to questionable to having once caused an interplanetary biohazard, but latemeal goes off without a hitch, nothing explodes and though the roasted tubers are slightly spicier than Obi-Wan’s taste, no one tries to sneak any food to the chubby tooka lazing on the sofa. Yan will swear up and down that it isn’t his, but. Well.   
  
And then Yan wakes in the middle of the night to Obi-Wan’s screams.    
Between the dark, his robe’s chosen location being between several volumes on Dantooinian politics he’s never touched and the lantern refusing to ignite, they’ve calmed to urgent whispers by the time he makes it to the living room doorway.   
“Go to sleep,” Qui-Gon tells the child.    
“But master-” he tries to protest.   
“ _ No _ , Obi-Wan. It was  _ just _ a bad dream.  _ Go back to bed _ .” the elder growls, and turns over. Yan retreats. He’s heard enough.   
He makes sure to beat Qui-Gon exactly halfway to death under the guise of some demonstrative sparring, and secures bi-weekly ‘teas’ with his grandpadawan.   
They  _ do _ drink tea-something else Yan has an extensive collection of-and Yoda stops by whenever he can. And they most definitely  _ do not ever _ do anything in relation to the growing stack of ‘pads that have taken up a permanent residence on Yan’s bedside table, bearing various titles such as ‘Instruction In The Unifying Force’ and ‘Visions For Beginners’.    
At least, not as far as Qui-Gon is concerned.   
  
  


When Yan finds the time, between helping Jocasta in the Archives, teaching Makashi classes to a young group of padawans who decided it would be ‘cool’ to learn (children these days have no respect for the true magnificence and glory of what was once the most prominent of lightsaber forms) and his sessions with Obi-Wan-newly twenty four-to read over the candidates Sidious has sent him for the clones’ template, he huffs a laugh.    
He knows already who’s going to win. The man likely still hates him for what might have-and very nearly did-happen at Galidraan, but Jango Fett is ruthless, cunning, brilliant and, tempered as he is now by his sister-Mand’alor Arla Fett-he might as well be unstoppable. 

  
  


And yet, for all his faith and airs; he almost breaks after Naboo.  _ What does it matter _ , a tiny, insidious voice asks him.  _ All your planning, all your sacrifices, if you can't even protect those you love?  _

For just a moment, he almost agrees. Almost. 

And then, like magic, the doors to his quarters slide open with a low pneumatic hiss, and Obi-Wan walks in, grief drawn deep in the new lines of his face, trailing a tiny blond  _ thing  _ that is making horrendous sounds Dooku thinks might be sobs.  
They don't need to say anything. They probably  _ should,  _ and Yan would very much like to know where the wailing child came from. (He hopes to every god it isn't Qui-Gon's-there had been that rumor about him, Tahl and that Micah boy years ago.)

Slowly, painfully so, Yan's stills. Drops his hands into his lap, discreetly mops up the few remaining tears trickling down his face. The little one hiccups a couple of times and then curls into Obi-Wan's side.   
Obi-Wan lifts him up, makes his way on shaky legs to the opposite couch and sits next to Dooku. He wraps an arm around the thing's shoulders, pulls it closer.   
And Yan really should, which he knows, but he does the same to his grandpadawan, because they're all that's left, now. Because he also knows that if he's going to see this through, he'll do it in Qui-Gon's memory, and he  _ will not break.   
_ Because he knows he needs help to do that.  


It's hard, when the war hits. He's twisted Sidious's original plans enough that he's playing the part of an inside agent in the Jedi, supposedly passing along information helpful to the Separatist war effort. It's smaller then it might have been had Jenza lead the efforts; Serenno is well-respected in many systems for their culture, wealth and connections. When they're wary of something it  _ pays _ to agree.

_ (He'd known she wouldn't. His sister is too  _ good  _ for that.) _

The  _ thing _ is almost as tall as him now, just as blond, and also, apparently, had believed no one knew about his 'secret' marriage.  
"You're not serious, are you?" the newest small one asks, bouncing on her toes and staring at her master in wide eyes concern. "Little gods, you actually  _ are. _ "  
Yan sighs heavily, pinches the bridge of his nose in a hopeless attempt to alleviate the inevitable headache.  
"What I genuinely do not comprehend," he says, turning back to his dough. "Is how you could possibly got into your tiny little brain the idea that the Jedi define attachment as any kind of relationship to a person outside the Order."

"Well, when I first got here, Windu said they were concerned about attachments and then-hey, was that an insult?!"  
Abandoning the kneading of the bread as a lost cause until this is settled, Yan turns to the thing and blinks. Once. Slowly.  
"...I see your point," Anakin admits. His shoulders droop. "Everyone knows?"  
" _ Yes, _ " Dooku answers. 

"Even Master Yoda," Ahsoka chimes, hopping over to finish the bread for Yan. "And Obi-Wan's still going to shave your head for telling Plo that Padmé is your best friend."  
He slumps, dropping his head in his arms and nearly stabbing himself in the face with the knife he'd been using to dice tubers. Yan whisks it out of the way just in time with a handy application of Force, and makes his way across the room-an admirable feat in and of itself, what with the fact that Ahsoka's exams are coming up, meaning notes and study material are  _ everywhere- _ to stir the stew.

Conversation around the table has dropped to a low hum, and the healer girl-Barriss, he thinks-has joined Ahsoka on the couch.   
Ahsoka moves her head off the arm of the couch and drops it in Barriss' lap, eyes squeezing shut when the movement jogs her headache.   
If he smiles beneath his beard when she glances down with a tender look and drops a kiss to Ahsoka's temple, it's small enough that no one notices.   
The bread is  _ very  _ soft, possibly as a result of Ahsoka violently pounding of it in the wake of Anakin's idiocy.

To his left, Jocasta drains her decanter of Corellian whiskey, and puts it down with considerable less delicacy than he'd like. He treated her to an irritated glare; those are antiques, a gift from his sister. She isn't nearly drunk enough to warrant it being an accident. She's always had a high tolerance for alcohol that hasn't faded with age-he'd watched her drink half a cantina under the table just last Taungsday for the sake of an elderly set of manuscripts, and walk out on her own two feet.  
"You," she says, pointing a finger just as accusing as her tone at Obi-Wan. "Picked someone up on the way home from your last mission."

Anakin chokes on his drink, coughing into a napkin.   
"That's my napkin, Skyguy," Ahsoka protests detachedly. "Barriss, is there a surgery to remove eardrums? And can I get it, preferably in the next thirty seconds?"  
"There is," she answers. "But if you get it, you won't be able to hear me say this."  
She leans down and whispers something that makes Ahsoka flush a dark, burnt, orange and grab for a throw pillow to bury her face in. 

"That's my couch you're defiling," Yan complains, eyes pointedly fixed on the opposite wall. "Besides, Jocasta, Obi-Wan wouldn't-"  
He breaks off, realizing that the Obi-Wan in question hasn't said a word, and looks decidedly guilty.  
"Right in front of my salad," Anakin whines, staring glumly at his crisp vegetables. "Can we change the subject? I don't want to know any more about this."

"Why, of course." Jocasta agrees, tone woven through with a silvery strand of gilt. Dooku knows this tone; it's the one that means she's going to spill all of Obi-Wan's business right on the table and gloat over it like a dragon with a hoard of gold.   
"Jo," he warns, a hand going to his decanter. It'd be a shame to break it, but Anakin has a tendency to get violent when presented with information he doesn't want to hear. Dooku doesn't think he'd hurt anyone, per say, but he might challenge Jocasta to a duel for impunging on Obi-Wan's honor.

"Hm? Something to say, Yan? I was simply going to remark on Mand'alor Fett's ongoing battle with the Senate."  
Obi-Wan's eyes widen, and he goes bright red, burying his face in both hands. Dooku levels a narrow gaze at her.   
_ What game are you playing?  _ He wonders.  
"Oh, Rex is pumped about that!" Anakin exclaims, setting down his fork. "When he found out that she's blonde too, he got so excited."

"An alliance with the Jedi could be very advantageous to her plans," Jocasta hums, pouring some wine into her glass and taking a sip. Her smirk is a stark, deep red, framed by strands of white hair falling loose from her right bun.  
Dooku goes pale.   
"No," he whispers, gripping the edge of the table. "No, no. He's  _ dead. _ "

Obi-Wan shrinks.

"Alliance?" Anakin asks, because he's smart as all hell when it comes to anything mechanical, but also happens to be terrible at reading a room.  
Ahsoka sits bolt upright, grimacing through a shock of pain.  
"The fuck, master?" She asks Obi-Wan, crossing her arms.   
"Language, young one," Jo admonishes, as if she doesn't swear like a spacer given any excuse.

"She means a marriage alliance. Master Skywalker," Barriss says. She seems to be taking this well; then again, it's not her grandmaster who's apparently seduces a dead Mandalorian.  
"He's not dead," Obi-Wan grumbles. "And I think it's my business who I spend my free time with."  
"Not when  _ who  _ is  _ Jango fucking Fett! _ " Anakin screeches.  
And, because this is his life, it's then that the platoon of droidekas choose to break down the door and storm into the room.   
  
War has sharpened all their reflexes, and everyone is on their feet within seconds.

"That door was engraved wroshyr wood!" Dooku rages, yanking out his lightsaber, with a quick glance down to make sure it is indeed the green one, and not the red.   
"Handle clankers first," Barriss calls, skirts swishing as she whirls between droids. "Get angry about doors later."  
"We  _ will _ be talking about your engagement to  _ Jango Fett _ later," Anakin threatens, vaulting over one and then slicing it's guns off.  
"We are not  _ engaged _ !" Obi-Wan shrieks, tossing his lightsaber over to Ahsoka so that she can double-wield it with her own and kicking a droideka's legs out from under it.  
Yan grins wide, and joins the fray.

He blinks.

Opens his eyes to dull grey walls and tears streaming down his face, pattering softly on his pillow.   
The mattress beneath him is soft, though it creaks when he sits up. Gentle, red morning light shines through the smoggy atmosphere, stretching out the shadow of his bookshelf. The flowers in the window box have turned their faces to the rising sun, blue and yellow turned purple and orange where their petals soak up the crimson beams.   
There's a knock on his door, and he rises, straightening his clothes before walking over to the door controls.   
They slide open, and the sheet of energy left glimmers a faint green, just enough to remind him of a curved hilt and glowing plasma. 

"Early, it is," Yoda greets, nodding to him, and settling down on the floor. Dooku follows suit, and accepts the cup pushed at him with a grateful nod.   
"Yes, master," he agrees, and very carefully doesn't elaborate.  
"Enough sleep, did you get?" His master and Yan laughs quietly, without mirth, and that is answer enough in itself.

The sun rises on two old men sitting in the quiet, drinking tea. One of them has brown eyes that go yellow sometimes when he remembers something of the past four years, the other has more wrinkles time itself.  
The world is, perhaps, a better place on whole than it might have been in a dream, and yet one of them sits in a prison that has become his home.  
Dooku closes his eyes, and recalls the green blade of his dream, and remembers the red one of reality. He mourns, silently, and then goes back to his tea.

**Author's Note:**

> this'll probably have two or so more parts(what should have happened and what would have happened), cause i find i enjoy writing dooku. 
> 
> this is set in the sunrise 'verse, the dream bit never actually happened. and please yell at me in to comments if you feel like it. thanks for reading!


End file.
